(No longer my) Home on the Range.

We’ve spent four glorious days here in the heartland. Camping. Fishing. Having long, friendly conversations with the girl running the cash register at Walgreens. It’s nice to get away from the land of tall buildings for a while. Coming “home” to Kansas always reminds me how important it is to stop and pay attention to things at “home” in Chicago.

One thing’s for sure, my roots run a little deeper than I could’ve ever known when we loaded up a U-Haul truck and drove away from our life here in Douglas County over five years ago.

Too early for economics.

It’s 3:18 AM. We’re getting ready to leave for the airport. This is what people do to save $15 on a plane ticket to Kansas City. Of course, if we’re running late because of sluggishness due to the fact that it’s unnatural to get up at 3 AM, we’ll wind up taking a $50 cab to the airport to make the cheap flight.

Makes total sense to to me.

Determining whether a situation is an “emergency” on not.

Tonight as I was walking Jez I witnessed a bunch of kids running and jumping and laughing hysterically. Being that I was a rotten kid once, I recognized this behavior immediately. Up to no good, I thought to myself.

Sure enough, as we rounded the corner, I saw the fire they’d just started in the alley. It wasn’t a big flame, not much bigger than a BBQ, but large enough to cause black smoke and a crackling sound.

With the phone in my pocket bulging, I walked on by—with a slight smile. Damn kids. Now what, I wondered. Call 911? Nah. I decided to keep to myself and focus on walking my sweet dog.

Ten minutes later we walked back down the street. Two fire trucks, one cop car and the entire Edgewater neighborhood association were on the scene. The fire was out, but it appeared that a couple of juvenile delinquents were in a bit of trouble. I imagine it’s illegal to spank your kids these days, so maybe mom and dad took away the Xbox for a few days. Hard to tell. One thing’s for sure—I’m probably not neighborhood watch material. At least not yet.

Under the old rubber tree.

I was 15 when I met Colleen Price. With purple hair and dog chain around her neck, she was roaming the streets of downtown Lawrence looking for other kids with dyed hair who might be interested in giving her a ride to see Fugazi and Helmet at Memorial Hall in Kansas City. Not only did I fit the profile, I was even wearing a Fugazi t-shirt.

It wasn’t long until we started dating. It was especially fun because she didn’t go to my Jr. High—which seemed exotic at the time, like an affair with someone who lives in Paris. This was intensified by the fact that the only way I could actually hang out with her was by begging my parents to let me drive our tan Chevy Astro minivan over to her house on the northwest side of town.

After about six months everything was going quite well. We spent our weeks dying each others hair and our weekends at Love Garden annoying the employees at the counter—hoping they’d notice our dyed hair.

But one day it all came to a screeching halt. Colleen’s father had taken a job in Palestine, Texas and they would be leaving town at the end of the month. Colleen’s family started giving away big piles of crap. Every time I showed up in the Astro minivan Colleen or her mom would hand me something they thought I might want. Usually I wasn’t really interested in whatever it was that they had, but I accepted it graciously all the same.

One evening, however, Colleen’s mom offered me a gigantic rubber tree that had always sat near their sliding glass door soaking up sunshine. I loved it and couldn’t wait to get it home where it would become an integral part of my tacky 15-year-old bedroom décor. A few weeks later Colleen departed for Texas, but the rubber tree remained—marking the beginning of my first long-term relationship.

The rubber tree followed me to my first apartment. And my second. And my third. Even as an irresponsible college kid living in roach-infested shit holes, I made it a priority to keep the plant watered and dusted. We briefly separated for about 10 months when I moved to California, but we reunited upon my return. The rubber tree had become a part of me. Almost like a pet or member of the family that only required sunshine, water and an occasional dose of Miracle Grow.

But the salad days couldn’t last forever. After almost 7 years with the plant, I moved into a small house with lots of windows. The rubber tree flourished—which inspired me to add more foliage to my collection. That’s when the evil ficus with mites made its way into the ranks. Soon the nasty little bugs appeared all over my beloved rubber tree. I took action. I had no choice. I bought sprays. I wiped down each leaf with soap and water. I gave it pep talks late at night. Then I met Cristi. She joined me in the Save the Rubber Tree campaign, but it was no use. The bugs could not be beat.

We kept the sad, sticky plant for another 8 years, but we both quietly contemplated getting rid of it. It left spots on the floor. It killed other plants—a few in Madison and a handful in Chicago. We both knew keeping it around was illogical, but I held on, arguing that after so many years together I couldn’t just throw it away. Until last weekend.

Last Sunday morning I walked the rubber tree out the back door, dumping it completely so I wouldn’t be tempted to go out and retrieve it. 15 years I spent with that plant, all for our relationship to end in a dirty Chicago alleyway. Hard to believe. A little shocking if you ask me. The strange twist to the story? Apparently someone else was drawn to the plant. When I woke up Monday morning it had been removed from our dumpster. The prospect of someone saving the plant excited me, but all my hopes were shattered when I spotted it stuffed hastily behind a recycling bin just half a block away. The person who retrieved must have noticed its condition and understandably abandoned it.

I’m not sure if there’s a point to this long story. I think it’s my way of coping. Just remember to take care of your plants, your pets and your people. After all, who knows when a nasty case of mites could take over and ruin everything.

Claims from the cabinet.

I stumbled down the hall this morning toward the coffee maker and hit the switch. Time to shave. I shave while the coffee brews because I hate shaving and I hate waiting for coffee, so I pack the worst part of my morning into one, painful three minute period to get it over with. It works.

Anyway, I open the cabinet to grab my razor and my Old Spice High Endurance deodorant stick’s sitting there, but with a new message crammed above the logo. I lean forward.

25% HIGHER PERFORMANCE ODOR PROTECTION

What the hell? Not only was I happy with the old product—apparently only 75% worth of odor protection—I begin to wonder how anyone can objectively measure such a thing. Seriously. As an ad guy this claim makes sense. But as a real human being—a so called consumer—this claim just pisses me off. Maybe I’ll just give up deodorant all together and switch to a nice Patchouli oil.

If that’s what it takes.

Being a proud, native Kansan can be tough venture sometimes. Announce where you’re from and people often say something stupid about Dorothy, how flat and boring it looks from I-70 and occasionally they’ll even bring up the whole creationism Vs. evolution debate, where the teaching of evolution was essentially banned in public schools. Indeed, based on most of the data I’ve collected, it seems the general population has more negative associations with the state than positive.

That is, until March arrives every year and suddenly this team known as the Jayhawks moves into the spotlight. People around the office begin filling out brackets and the mention of my beloved home state echoes through the hallways. Even though I don’t follow sports, I take advantage of this opportunity to remind everyone “I’m from Lawrence, Kansas” and then I force a quick, “GO HAWKS,” and walk away with a smile.

But this year the Jayhawks not only made it to the playoffs, they won the National Championship. Now I’m left to contemplate all the different ways I can benefit from their achievement. Will Kansas finally get the respect it deserves? Will people finally accept the fact that the best people on earth come from the heartland? Will there be a surge in tourism? Probably not. So I plan to milk this victory for all it’s worth— before everything goes back to normal and the Dorothy jokes return to the forefront of everyone’s mind.

Call the dog.

If there’s one thing you should know about me, it’s that I like to laugh at myself. Not because I think I’m funny, but instead because I often find myself in funny situations. This morning is a perfect example.

I’m at the park with Jez—across the street from a bunch of apartment buildings. Cars line both sides of the street. Jez begins to veer from the path toward the road, chasing a small furry critter of some sort.

Just as my brain triggers the impulse to call the dog, a woman exits an apartment building across the street behind a row of cars. She can only see me, not my brown dog.

“Over here, BABE!!” I yell toward Jez—and the innocent woman leaving for work, travel mug in hand.

I quickly realize what has transpired and smile. She, however, does not. Instead, she quickly gets in her car and drives away shooting me a look of disgust.

So, I suppose if some jealous husband or angry boyfriend is waiting for me tomorrow morning, I’ll have to introduce them to Jez and give them the link to this blog entry.